


Leap Day

by Lalalli



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: F/M, Humor, No Love Triangle, because do we really need another one?, leap year au, road trip fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-16
Updated: 2016-04-26
Packaged: 2018-06-02 15:52:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6572314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lalalli/pseuds/Lalalli
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On her way to Dublin for a conference, Jemma Simmons gets stranded on the other side of Ireland.  The good news?  She's able to recruit innkeeper Leo Fitz to drive her to Dublin.  The bad news?  They can't stand each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [atomicsupervillainess](https://archiveofourown.org/users/atomicsupervillainess/gifts).



> For scientistjemma on Tumblr, who wanted a Leap Year AU (hopefully you don't mind all the changes I made?) and atomicsupervillainess who suggested I write it.

Jemma drags her luggage behind her through the door of the quaint inn, grateful to escape the torrential downpour outside. The uneven wooden floorboards cause the wheels of her suitcase to rattle, causing Jemma to worry momentarily about the fragile equipment nestled among her clothes, until she remembers that if they were going to break, they would have done so during the turbulent flight and tempestuous boat ride she took to get here.

When she reaches the unoccupied front desk, she sighs heavily and swipes her dripping hair out of her eyes. “Hello?” she calls out, ringing the bell on the desk. “Is anyone here?” She rings the bell again, then twice more for good measure. She’s usually more patient than this, but she just spent a long day traveling through inclement weather, through cold and wind and rain, and didn’t even get to her final destination.

And now she’s standing here, alone, soaking wet and teeth-chattering cold, thoroughly exhausted, and all she wants to do is dry off and climb into a soft, warm bed, but she can’t because she can’t get any service in this blasted inn! “Hello! she shouts, ringing the bell insistently.

A young man with golden brown curls rushes in and grabs the bell away from her. “I’m here!” he shouts, exasperated. “Jesus!” Jemma’s first thought is that he seems too young, almost, to be behind the desk. The inn is all dated floral wallpaper and faded velvet furniture and dark mahogany surfaces, and really, the person greeting her should be an elderly woman with magenta hair offering her Werther’s butterscotch candies.

Jemma takes a deep breath and pastes on her brightest smile. She sticks out her hand. “Dr. Jemma Simmons. I believe we spoke on the phone?” She recognizes the grumpy Scottish accent - it had initially surprised her when she called because she had been expecting the manager of the establishment to be Irish. But she supposed it was presumptuous of her to make that assumption, seeing as she’s a Brit who currently resides in America.

The young man opens his mouth, no doubt readying himself to tell her off, but then snaps it shut. He sighs and takes her hand. “Fitz.”

Jemma raises an eyebrow as she withdraws her hand from his. “Just Fitz?”

“Just Fitz,” he says wearily. He opens a cabinet behind him and grabs a key off a peg. “You’re in room 2.” He walks around the counter and grabs her suitcase. “Follow me.”

As they walk through the dimly-lit hallway and up the rickety wooden stairs, Jemma feels the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. The inn is too quiet, too still, and it’s a bit eerie. She finds herself doing what she always does when she feels uncomfortable: babbling indiscriminately.

“I’m so glad you had an available room. I really wasn’t supposed to be here at all, but then my plane got diverted because of the storm, and then I tried to take a ferry, but that got diverted too, which is really very unfortunate because I really need to be in Dublin by February 29. I’m supposed to be presenting at a conference and it’s really very pressing because if I’m not there, my partner will have to present by himself, and he really doesn’t have as thorough an understanding of my half of the work as I would like. Speaking of which, do you have a phone number for a taxi company? I’ll need a ride to Dublin tomorrow.”

Fitz just grunts.

Jemma winces. “I mean, not right this moment, of course - I don’t expect you to rattle it off of the top of your head.” Jemma laughs awkwardly. “Just...whenever you get the chance.” Jemma glances around the upstairs hall as they pass several closed doors, all with brass numbers nailed to the front. “It seems really quiet here - where are all your other guests?”

Fitz unlocks the door at the very end of the hall, furthest from the staircase, and pushes it open. “Here you are,” he tells her, not even acknowledging anything she had said previously.

Jemma walks in and glances around the cramped room, taking in the giant armoire at the foot of the twin bed and the bare desk pushed against the wall. She turns to face Fitz. “I hate to bother you, but I didn’t see any restaurants on my way in. Do you know of anywhere I might eat?”

Fitz scratched the back of his head. “I have dinner in the oven.” He pauses, and when he speaks again, his voice veers sharply towards irritation and annoyance. “That’s why it took me so long to get to the desk - I was trying to make sure nothing burned.”

Jemma’s face scrunches, all her features converging towards the center of her face. “Sorry.”

Fitz turns to leave, then pauses again, turning back to face her. He tugs on the sleeves of his blue jumper, which Jemma notices very closely matches the blue of his eyes. “And by the way, I provide the only taxi service in the village. But I can’t go all the way to Dublin - I have to watch over all this.” He waves his hand around in a gesture that Jemma assumes is meant to encompass the entirety of the building.

Jemma’s face falls. “But...I need to get to Dublin.”

Fitz places both hands behind his back, causing his pelvis to jut forward. “I know. I…” He sighs and rubs a hand through his hair. “Look, maybe I can drive you to the nearest train station in the morning. It’s about an hour’s drive away, but I think the place can manage without me if it’s just for a couple hours.”

Jemma offers him the sincerest smile she can muster. It wasn’t ideal, but it was better than being stuck here. “Thank you.”

\----------

After taking a warm shower and changing into dry clothes, Jemma takes out her laptop to continue working on her presentation. She reads over her talking points, whispering her written words to herself, trying to memorize it until the movements of her mouth become muscle memory.

As Jemma attempts to rephrase an awkwardly-worded sentence, a window pops up on her screen informing her that her battery is about to die. Sighing heavily, she sets her laptop aside and walks across the room to retrieve her laptop cord. As she unravels it and plugs it into her laptop, she scans the room for an outlet. She doesn’t see any, so she budges the desk and nightstand away from the wall, searching for one that might be hiding. She drops to the ground and peeks under the bed, using the light from her phone to search through the darkness. To her immense relief, she finds the bottom edge of an outlet peeking out from behind the headboard of the bed.

She pushes the bed away from the wall until the foot of the bed is pressed against the armoire. “Thank goodness,” she whispers, reaching under to plug in her cord.

Sparks fly. Jemma screams and jerks back, causing the bed to push back further and the armoire to fall forward, its doors swinging open and its contents spilling onto the bed. The lights overhead flicker and crackle before shutting off for good, surrounding Jemma in darkness.

Jemma takes a deep breath, trying to get her bearings. “Shite,” she whispers.

First things first. Jemma pushes the armoire back up against the wall and starts to frantically throw its contents back inside: towels, linens, blueprints, coat hangers...blueprints?

Jemma furrows her brow as she unfurls and inspects the scrolls of paper, using her phone for light. They are not, as she previously suspected, blueprints to the house. Instead, they look like...drones?

Suddenly, her door swings open and Fitz bursts into her room, frantic. “Are you -?” He stops short. “Where did you find that?” he asks, his voice strangled.

Jemma rises quickly to her feet. “Your outlet fried my laptop!” she blurts.

That was _not_ what she meant to say.

Fitz’s eyes widen before narrowing in anger. “This was _you_? Are you serious? You fried the whole village!”

Jemma winces. “It was an accident?” she offers feebly.

Fitz reaches forward and snatches the blueprints out of her hands. “These are personal,” he snaps, before turning and stomping away.

Jemma bites her bottom lip. “Will you still drive me to the train station tomorrow?” she calls after him.

Silence.

Jemma sinks onto her bed. She’s usually very optimistic, and she’s tempted to reassure herself that at the very least, this day couldn’t possibly get any worse. But then again, with the luck she’s been having lately?

It probably could.

\--------------------------------

“700 euros?” Fitz repeats incredulously. “That’s ridiculous!”

The electrician just shrugs. “That’s how much it costs.”

Fitz rubs at his eyes, still adjusting to the early morning sunlight. “Look - I don’t have it on me right now, but maybe we can set up some sort of payment plan? I can pay you in installments.”

The electrician just gives Fitz a pointed look as he pulls off his heavy gloves. “Just like the last three times?” He starts to walk back to his truck.

“Wait!” Fitz calls after him, following him down the grassy driveway. “I never stopped paying you - it’s just been a...a process.” He gestured towards the house. “Business has been slow lately. It’s the off season.”

The electrician raises a bushy grey eyebrow. “It’s been your off season for the past two years,” he reminds him gruffly. He tosses his gloves through the open window of his truck onto the passenger seat before turning back to look at Fitz sympathetically. “Look, kid. I understand your predicament. I do. But I’m running a business, too, you know?”

Fitz looks down at his shoes. “I know.”

The electrician sighs. “Call me when you have 500 and I’ll come back to fix your lights. We’ll work something out.”

Fitz doesn’t have that kind of money either, but he nods anyways. “Right.”

Fitz walks back into the mostly empty house, contemplating his options. His town isn’t exactly a tourist attraction - it’s a stopover, mostly for travelers to have somewhere to rest overnight on their way to somewhere else. And even though he told Dr. Simmons the night before that he was too busy to drive her all the way to Dublin, the truth is that he currently has no other guests except for her. And even though he doesn’t want to admit it to himself, chances are, with the cold and stormy weather expected to stretch from late winter into spring, there probably won’t be any more travelers passing by anytime soon.

Fitz runs up the stairs two at a time, knowing what he has to do, but dreading it all the same.

Fitz pauses to take a deep breath before knocking on Jemma's door. "Dr. Simmons?"

Jemma opens the door, already dressed for the day. "Fitz," she greets him cooly. She leaves the door wide open and continues to pack her things. "I apologize that I'm still here. I thought I had another couple hours before check-out. Not that it will take me another couple hours, mind you - I’m eager to get on my way."

Fitz scratches behind his ear. "About that. I just wanted to let you know that I can drive you to Dublin."

Jemma whirls around to look at him. "You can?" A dozen expressions flit across her face, clear as day - surprise, appreciation, doubt, worry, suspicion- before returning to the same neutral and unflappable air she had previously adopted.

Fitz leans against her doorframe. "Uh, yeah. For 500 euros."

Jemma crosses her arms over her chest. "Seems steep."

Fitz raises his eyebrows. "How much did you think it would cost going by taxi?" The question comes out a bit more sardonically than he intends, but it doesn’t seem to phase Jemma.

Jemma sighs. "Fair enough." She holds out her hand. "Deal."

Fitz steps forward to shake it. "Deal."

\-----------------------

After a morning filled with loud bickering about everything from Fitz’s car ( _“Please tell me that’s not your car.” “What’s wrong with it?” “It’s ancient.” “It’s reliable!”_ ) to Jemma’s luggage ( _“Did you fill this thing with bricks? It weighs a ton!” “It’s my prototypes!”_ ) to Fitz’s music ( _“Did you just stop listening to music the late 90s?” “I have great music!” “Just decided, yup, we’ve definitely reached our zenith as a culture. I’ll just continue listening to this.” “Hey - you try finding cassettes of anything past 2001.”_ ) Fitz enjoys the relative peace and quiet that comes with the first 45 minutes of their journey. However, Fitz quickly learns that Jemma is not the sort to be easily satisfied by merely contemplating long stretches of open road with nothing but stone-dotted green pastures on either side.

“I was thinking.”

“Don’t let me stop you,” Fitz mutters under his breath.

Jemma either doesn’t hear him or chooses to ignore him. “If I’m calling you just Fitz, you should probably call me just Simmons.”

Fitz keeps his eyes trained on the road. “Is that so, Dr. Jemma Simmons?” he asks, imitating the same professional inflection she used to introduce herself both on the phone and in person.

“It is so,” Jemma says, turning her attention away from the rolling green hills to study Fitz’s face. “After all, we’re both doctors.”

Fitz feels as though all the air has been sucked out of the car. “What?” he chokes out.

“You’re Dr. Leopold Fitz,” Jemma says in her annoyingly know-it-all voice. “You got your Ph.D. in mechanical engineering at MIT. You presented your research on synthetic flesh for artificial limbs at a conference in Washington DC.”

Fitz turns to stare at Jemma, his eyes wide. “How did you know that?” He suddenly slams on his brakes. “Oh my God, have you been stalking me?”

Jemma starts laughing, and Fitz can’t imagine for the life of him what she finds so funny about this situation. He wonders if he should’ve completed a background check on her before agreeing to be stuck in a car with her all day.

“I found your dissertation and some old conference programs in the armoire,” Jemma explains, once her laughter subsides.

“Why were you snooping through my stuff?” Fitz asks accusingly.

“I wasn’t!” Jemma protests. “The armoire fell open on my bed and I found them while cleaning up - same way I found your blueprints.”

Satisfied with her explanation, Fitz starts driving again. “You could’ve put it back without looking at it,” he mutters petulantly.

“But it was so fascinating!” Jemma’s voice rises in excitement. “And besides, I wanted to see if we ever attended any of the same conferences.”

Even though Fitz finds Jemma’s endless curiosity a bit intrusive and bothersome, he can’t help but succumb to curiosity himself. “Have we?”

Jemma smiles brightly at him, and for the first time since meeting her, it doesn’t seem forced. “We did, actually! Twice!” She pulls her messenger bag from the backseat to her lap and starts rifling through it, continuing to speak rapidly. “Though I’m not surprised we didn’t meet prior to this - those conferences do tend to be very big and our areas of specialty have very little overlap. Interestingly enough, you didn’t have any programs past 2014 - I’m assuming that’s when you made your career change?”

“Something like that,” Fitz mutters darkly.

“Anyways.” Jemma pulls out a thick cylinder of blueprints and unrolls it on the dashboard. “We have a lot of work to do before we get to Dublin.”

Fitz glances at the blueprints, then does a double-take when he recognizes them as his. “What’re you doing with those?” he asks loudly. He’s not shouting. He’s definitely not shouting. “You can’t just take things without asking!”

Jemma shoots him a patronizing look. “Fitz, think about it. We’re on our way to a science conference. There are going to be research and development teams from all over America and Europe. I know for a fact that Stark Industries is going to be there - my company is trying to negotiate a partnership with them. This is the perfect opportunity for you to network - maybe even sell some of your designs!”

Fitz shakes his head in disbelief. “Why would I want to do that?”

“Because your designs are incredible and have an endless number of potential applications! They don’t belong in the back of your closet - they belong _here_ , in the real world.” She says it with authority, as though she’s accustomed to knowing what’s best, and while a small part of Fitz finds her wide-eyed enthusiasm endearing, a larger part of him resents her for just assuming that he’d automatically want the same thing she wants.

“Well, they’re _my_ designs,” Fitz snaps, “So I get to decide what I do with them and where I keep them.”

Jemma opens her mouth to protest, but Fitz reaches over to turn up the stereo, letting the _zig-a-zig-ahhhhs_ of Scary Spice drown out Jemma’s words. Jemma angrily glares at him, before crossing her arms over her chest and slouching in her seat.

Fitz enjoys the rest his Spice Girls cassette in relative peace, and when it ends, he reaches over to open the glove compartment to switch out the cassettes. Unfortunately, Jemma is blocking it, busy leaning forward and scribbling notes on his blueprints against his dashboard.

“What are you doing?” Fitz shouts. He pulls the paper out from under her to inspect the damage she’s done.

“I’m making improvements, _obviously_.” Jemma rolls her eyes.

Fitz looks back and forth between his blueprint and Jemma’s affronted expression (which is _completely_ unmerited). “Look, _Simmons_ ,” he bites out. “Maybe you don’t mind when people mess with your intellectual property-”

Jemma exhales sharply through her nostrils and turns to look straight ahead. “Ugh, Fitz.”

“But I really don’t appreciate you just swooping in, like you know what’s best, when-”

“Fitz!”

“You have no right to-”

“FITZ!” Jemma screams, and Fitz looks up at the road just in time to slam on the brakes. The car screeches to a stop, just barely nudging one of the cows in the herd blocking their path.

Fitz shifts into park and turns to see if Jemma’s okay. One palm rests over her heart and her chest quickly rises and falls in time with her labored breaths. She fumbles for the door handle. “Air,” she gasps. “I need air.” She opens the door and stumbles out onto the grass lining the side of the road.

Fitz turns off the engine and follows her out. “Are you okay?” he asks, walking around the car to stand by her side. He puts his hand on Jemma’s shoulder.

Jemma shrugs out of his grasp and whirls to face him. “What were you thinking?” she yells.

“Me?!” Fitz repeats incredulously. “What were _you_ thinking?”

Jemma flings her arm out towards the cows. “Well, I certainly wasn’t thinking that driving headlong into a herd of cows would be a great way to die!”

“Well, it wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t distracted me!”

Jemma’s eyes widen and she throws her fists down at her sides, her shoulders hunched towards her ears. “Distracted you?! I was trying to help you!”

“And I thought I made it pretty clear that I don’t want your help!”

“Fine!” Jemma huffs. “Then I _won’t_ help!”

“Fine!” Fitz snaps.

“Good!”

“Good!”

“Fine!”

“Fine!”

They turn away from each other, Fitz taking a few steps down the road, back where they came from, clutching at his hair in frustration.

“Fitz.”

Though Jemma’s voice is gentler, Fitz is unable to calm down as easily as her. “What?” he snaps, unable to keep the grouchiness out of his voice.

“I think we can go now.”

Fitz turns to look at the road ahead. Most of the cows have meandered back through the shrubs and onto the grass, with only a couple stragglers loitering far enough on the side of the road that Fitz would be able to drive around them. “Alright then,” he sighs.

After they both climb back into the car, Fitz turns the key in the ignition. The engine sputters and stops. Fitz narrows his eyes and turns his keys harder. The engine coughs and wheezes, trying its level best to stay alive, but ultimately falls silent. Fitz groans and thumps his forehead on the steering wheel. “Noooo,” he moans quietly.

“You said your car was reliable,” Jemma reminds him, unable to keep the haughtiness out of her voice.

Fitz pulls his cell phone out of his back pocket. “Bollocks.” He looks at Jemma. “No reception.”

Raising her eyebrows in alarm, Jemma pulls out her cell phone as well. She furrows her brow and turns to look at Fitz. “Mine’s dead.”

Although Fitz immediately has the idea to walk either until he receives reception or he reaches the pub about an hour down the road, it takes them an additional ten minutes to actually start walking. First, they argue about whether Jemma would stay with the car or accompany Fitz to the pub ( _You’re not leaving me in the middle of nowhere with a dead phone!_ ), before launching into another argument about whether Jemma should bring her suitcase with her or leave it in the car until the tow truck retrieves it ( _I can’t leave my prototypes - that’s ridiculous!_ ). 

And while they fill the first twenty minutes their walk with polite conversation about their respective experiences in the United States, they start arguing once more when Jemma tries to hitch a ride in a passing van, with Jemma trying to persuade Fitz to get in the van with her and Fitz steadfastly insisting it’s a bad idea, only for the argument to devolve into whose fault it is that the two men in the van (whom Fitz later dubs Beady Eyes and Ginger Trump) take off with Jemma’s suitcase but without them.

By the time they reach the pub, Fitz is convinced that he has never met anyone as infuriating as Dr. Jemma Simmons. Unfortunately, he must also admit to himself that she’s also the most clever and interesting and beautiful person he’s ever met, a thought he finds especially inconvenient seeing as, in a mutual fit of acerbity, they agreed that they were never talking to each other again not ten minutes ago.

As Fitz waits in line to use the pay phone, Jemma leans against the wall next to the doorway of the adjoining billiards room to wait for him, taking in the pub’s atmosphere and its patrons. She does a double take when, through the crack in the door, she sees two familiar men rifling through a very familiar suitcase, holding up very familiar underwear.

Before she can think better of it, Jemma bursts through the door and announces, “I’ll be taking my things back now, thank you.” She briskly walks up to the table and reaches forward to snatch her bra out of Beady Eyes’ hands.

Beady Eyes takes advantage of her proximity to grab her wrist. “Is that so?” he asks, standing up.

Jemma quickly glances at Ginger Trump, who seems to find the scene playing out before him to be highly amusing. She looks back at Beady Eyes, standing up as straight as she can. “It is so.” She wrenches her arm out of his grip and yanks the bra away from him. “I don’t think this will fit you anyhow. If I had to guess, you’re probably a 38A.”

Ginger Trump stands as well, walking around the table to stand next to his friend. Jemma resists the urge to step back, instead plunging her hand into her messenger bag at her hip, trying to feel for her can of pepper spray.

“Leave her alone.”

Jemma sighs as Fitz sidles up next to her. “I don’t need you to rescue me, Fitz. I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”

Fitz glares at Beady Eyes mistrustfully. “I know you’re _capable_ \- that’s not the point. The issue is that these _asshats_ apparently - _Oooph_!” 

Jemma gasps as Ginger Trump’s fist connects with Fitz’s cheekbone. As she scrambles to get out her pepper spray, Fitz stumbles back and grabs a pool cue, holding it in front of himself as a barrier. The pepper spray slips from her grip and rolls under the pool table. Beady Eyes lunges under the table, reaching for it.

Panicked, Jemma runs to her suitcase, digging through her clothes until she finds what she’s looking for. She opens the metal case, takes out her prototype, crouches under the table, aims at Beady Eyes, and fires. A pulse of blue hits Beady Eyes, who collapses face down, still under the pool table. Jemma rises to her feet and fires again at Ginger Trump’s back. He immediately crumples to the ground, leaving her and Fitz facing each other on opposite sides of the room.

Fitz’s eyes widen when he sees her. “Is that a _gun_? Did you just _shoot_ them?! Jesus, Simmons!”

“Don’t worry - it’s non-lethal.” Jemma shrugs. “They’re just unconscious. The bullets are dendrotoxin.”

It only takes Fitz four large strides to cross the room. “It doesn’t matter!” he hisses, taking the gun from her. “You can’t just go around _shooting_ people, Simmons! This isn’t America!”

The bartender bursts through the door. Fitz turns to face him, keeping the gun behind his back. The bartender takes one look at the two unconscious men, another look at the shiner forming on Fitz’s face, and immediately scowls. “You two,” he grunts. “Out.”

Jemma pushes her hair out of her face. “But we-”

“OUT!”

Jemma startles and looks down at the table. “Fair enough,” she says meekly.

As soon as the bartender leaves the room, Jemma quickly shoves her clothes back into her suitcase while Fitz returns the gun to its case. He frowns as he looks down at it. “Jemma - did you design this yourself?”

“Huh?” Jemma looks up at him. “Oh - no, my partner designed it. Project partner, that is. He came up with the idea first - they brought me on board to develop the paralyzing agent to go with it.” She snaps the case closed and places it in her suitcase. “We did end up having the make a few adjustments - made the air chamber bigger for one - but we’re quite happy with the way it turned out.” She zips her suitcase closed and walks out of the bar. Fitz follows her.

Once they’re outside, Fitz leads Jemma further down the road past the pub, explaining to her that he was able to get in touch with his friend to tow his car, but that none of the garages in the area would be able to fix it until tomorrow. “Our best bet,” he says, “Is to catch a train. The station is a couple hours away on foot.”

As they continue walking, Fitz turns the topic back to Jemma’s dendrotoxin gun, peppering her with more questions about its design and her partner.

“To be honest,” Jemma sighs, her suitcase rattling behind her. “My partner is part of the reason it’s so important for me to make it to the conference.”

Fitz feels a strange sense of disappointment settle heavily into his chest. “You fancy him, then?”

“What?” Jemma looks at Fitz in surprise. “No, quite the opposite, actually. Can’t stand him.”

“Oh.” Fitz furrows his brow. “Then why -”

“Because he has this way of talking - I don’t know if it’s intentional or not - but he just says things as though he’s the sole person responsible for the project,” Jemma explains. “We’re supposed to be partners, but he keeps taking credit for everything.”

“Why do you let him?” Fitz asks.

“I don’t.” Jemma bites her bottom lip. “But if I’m not in Dublin, I won’t be around to correct him, will I? And the thing is, he doesn’t even understand the basic properties of dendrotoxin! It doesn’t matter how many times I’ve explained it to him - Ward just doesn’t listen!”

Fitz stops in his tracks. “Ward? Grant Ward?” he asks in disbelief.

Jemma turns to look at him. “Yes! Do you know him?”

Fitz continues walking, keeping his eyes trained on the ground. “We used to work together.”

Jemma walks beside him, trying to read his face. “Did you?”

“Yeah. Until my…” Fitz falters. “Until I moved here,” he says more firmly. He reaches over to place his hand on Jemma’s suitcase handle. Jemma ignores how her stomach flutters when his fingers brush against hers. “Let me take this,” Fitz offers. “You’re already carrying that bag.”

Jemma looks up at his face and tries not to think about symmetrical it is. “It’s quite alright, Fitz. I’m perfectly capable-”

Fitz rolls his eyes. “I know you’re capable,” he tells her. “I’m just trying to even out the load.”

“But it’s _my_ -”

“ _Simmons_.” Fitz’s wide blue eyes focus intently on hers. “Will you please just let me do something nice for you?”

Jemma swallows. “Fine.” She lets go of the suitcase. They both resume walking. “I’m sorry if I insulted your friend, by the way.”

Fitz furrows his brow. “Who?”

”Ward.” Jemma shrugs. “Who else?”

Fitz shakes his head. “Ward and I weren’t friends.”

“But you said -”

“I said we worked together,” Fitz reminds her.

Jemma tucks her hair behind her ear. “So you didn’t get on?”

Fitz keeps his eyes trained straight ahead. “Not really,” he says in a clipped tone of voice that suggests that maybe their relationship was more strained than “not really” getting on.

Jemma is silent for a few moments. “Well, that’s good.”

Fitz raises an eyebrow. “Is it?”

Jemma nods. “It is. As the saying goes, the enemy of my enemy is my friend.” She nudges Fitz’s arm with her shoulder. “Guess that means we’re friends.”

\------------

When Fitz and Jemma reach the train station, they are informed that the next train won’t arrive for another two hours. They decide to wait on the bench in front of the train station. Fitz steals glances at Jemma as she stares straight ahead, mentally calculating the time she’s lost and the time she has left.

“Simmons?”

Jemma turns to look at Fitz. “Yes?”

He hesitates, looking down at the ground. “I don’t want to jump to conclusions. But do you think I could show you one of my blueprints?”

Jemma smiles at him. “Of course.”

Fitz reaches into Jemma’s messenger bag and pulls out the roll of blueprints. He unfurls them and flips through the sheets until he finds what he’s looking for. He pulls it out of the stack and smooths it on their laps. “Does this look familiar?”

Jemma leans closer to inspect it, then turns to Fitz with wide eyes. “Fitz, this is almost identical to Ward’s initial design of the gun. When did you do this?”

“About a month before I left the States.” Fitz pauses. “I didn’t think anyone knew I was working on it.”

“Do you think Ward stole your design?” Jemma asks.

Fitz just shrugs. “Like I said, I don’t want to jump to conclusions. And even if he did…” Fitz rolls up his design. “There’s no way to prove it. And it doesn’t matter anyways. It’s not like it affects my career.”

Jemma looks at him incredulously. “It does matter, Fitz! If he did take your design, he’s getting credit for something that you created. That’s not fair.”

Fitz sighs and crosses his arms over his chest. “Yeah, well…” He looks away. “Life’s not fair.”

Jemma studies his face for a few moments. It’s usually so open, conveying his every emotion and thought (mostly annoyance with her), but he’s closed himself off and she’s not sure what to say or how to make things better. She reaches over and takes the blueprints from him.

He turns to look at her as she flattens the papers on her lap. “What are you doing?”

“Well…” Jemma scribbles in the corner of the first sheet. “If Ward is taking credit for your gun, we need to make sure you get credit for everything else.”

Fitz rolls his eyes. “Not this again.” He tugs gently on the paper. “Just leave it be. It’s rubbish, anyhow.”

Jemma’s head snaps so sharply to face him that Fitz is surprised her neck doesn’t crack. “How can you say that?” She sounds so offended that anyone else would think that Fitz had just insulted her work instead of his own. “These are brilliant, Fitz! Take these drones, for example - can you imagine what they could do for forensic investigations? They’d be invaluable!”

Fitz huffs in frustration. “Simmons, I’m not an engineer anymore. Just…” He tugs again on the blueprints. “Give them back.”

“Fine!” Jemma raises her hands in surrender. The light breeze suddenly turns into a gust of wind, sending the papers flying in the air and tumbling down the road.

Fitz and Jemma stare wide-eyed in shock for a moment before scrambling into action. They race after the blueprints, tripping over rocks and tree roots and slipping in patches of mud as they try to keep the papers from slipping away.

Jemma doesn’t know how far she’s run from the train station by the time she grabs the last one. Fitz approaches her from even further down the road, clutching his work in his hands.

“Did you get it?” Jemma asks breathlessly.

Fitz manages to nod before bending down, bracing his hands on his knees, panting for breath.

Jemma stumbles to the side of the road and sits at the base of a grassy hill to catch her breath. Fitz takes a few heavy steps before collapsing next to her.

Her chest still heaving as she struggles for air, Jemma turns to look at Fitz and smiles, her labored breathing somehow resembling laughter.

Fitz furrows his brow. “What’s so funny?”

Jemma shakes her head. “Nothing.” She looks straight ahead. “It’s just...I knew you cared about your designs.”

Fitz rolls his eyes. “Know-it-all,” he mutters under his breath, though there’s no real heat behind it. He clambers to his feet and holds out a hand to Jemma. Jemma takes his hand and allows him to help pull her up. “Come on,” he sighs. “Before we miss the train.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took me so long to get this posted! I had most of it written when I posted the first chapter, but I kept playing around with the ending. Anyways...hope you like it?

“Look who I brought home, Ethel!” Frank, the station master, announces. Jemma and Fitz follow him into his house, taking in the cheerful yellow dining room filled with bright potted flowers and houseplants. While it had been rather unfortunate that they missed their train to Dublin, they were lucky that Frank took pity on them when he found Jemma sobbing on the wooden train platform and invited them to stay at the bed and breakfast he runs with his wife.

Ethel steps forward to greet them. “You’re in luck,” she tells them. “I just turned away a couple who were backpacking through, or else we wouldn’t have an available room for you!” She turns to Frank. “They weren’t married - can you believe it? Just straight out admitted it with no shame whatsoever!”

Fitz suppresses a grimace. “That escalated quickly,” he mutters under his breath to Jemma. He feels Jemma tense beside him and quickly glances at her. Her hands are balled into fists and the stormy glint in her eye suggests she’s about to say something rash. She takes in a breath to speak, but Fitz quickly reaches over and grabs her hand. She looks up at him in surprise.

Fitz looks intently at her, hoping she’ll get the message. _Don’t say anything_.

Jemma’s eyes widen. She imperceptibly shakes her head. _But they’re being-_

Fitz squeezes her hand and gives her a pleading look. _I know. But where else are we going to stay tonight?_

“So what are your names?” Ethel asks, startling them and interrupting their silent conversation.

Jemma pastes on a smile. “I’m Jemma and this is Leopold.” Fitz turns and glares at her before turning his attention back to Ethel.

“And your last name?” she asks.

“Fitz.”

“Simmons.”

Fitz and Jemma glance at each other at the same time. “Fitzsimmons,” they say simultaneously.

Ethel clasps her hands together. “How lovely!” She turns and beckons them. “Come with me - I’ll show you to your room.”

\------------------------

The bed creaks as Fitz rolls over for the hundredth time that evening. Jemma doesn’t know whether the reason neither of them can fall asleep has more to do with their physical or emotional discomfort, seeing as the bed is so narrow that they can’t both fit in it without their arms and legs pressing together. She stares up at the ceiling, trying to mentally recite as many digits of pi as she can.

Fitz shifts again, accidentally jostling Jemma in the process. He sighs heavily.

Jemma rolls to her side, facing Fitz. “Fitz?” she whispers.

“Yeah?”

“Are you awake?” she asks the back of his head.

“No.”

Jemma rolls her eyes. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Will you let me sleep if I answer it?” Fitz asks grumpily.

“I won’t say another word for the rest of the night,” Jemma promises.

Fitz groans and the bed shakes again as he adjusts his arms and legs. “Fine. Go ahead.”

“What made you decide to leave behind engineering to move to Ireland and run an inn?”

Fitz is silent for a long moment. Finally, he mumbles, “It wasn’t necessarily a decision - I just...sort of...fell into it.”

Jemma furrows her brow. “How do you just _fall_ into such a drastic change?”

Fitz exhales heavily. “The inn used to be my mum’s. I came back when she got sick - helped her run things while she was receiving treatment. It was supposed to be temporary - just until she got better.” His voice falters, and when he speaks again, his voice trembles. “I never expected her to…”

Jemma reaches forward and places her hand on his shoulder. “I’m so sorry, Fitz.”

“S’alright,” he whispers.

“How long…”

“Nine months next Friday.” His shoulder rolls back, and Jemma thinks he’s shrugging off her hand, but then he’s rolling over to face her and in the glow of the pale moonlight streaming through their window, she can see the planes and contours of his face. His eyes are wet and blue, and it seems appropriate, somehow, that tears are made of salt water because his eyes seem to contain an ocean.

Fitz breathes in sharply when he sees how he’s inadvertently brought their faces so close together. Jemma’s hand returns to his arm. She feels warm and steady and constant, and though Fitz only met her yesterday, and though they spent the whole day arguing and bickering, he can’t help but feel like he could tell her anything and she’d understand.

“My mum bought the inn when I was five - after my dad left,” Fitz whispers. “Used her life’s savings. She didn’t want to rely on anyone ever again. She loved running it - meeting people from all over, making people feel welcome. She was planning this huge party when she passed - it would’ve been the inn’s 15th anniversary last November. We didn’t end up doing it - it didn’t seem right without her.”

Jemma blinks. “15th anniversary? Fitz, are you...are you 20?” she asks incredulously.

Fitz raises his eyebrows at the abrupt change in subject. “Just turned 21 - why?”

“And you moved back two years ago - at 18? 19? And you had been working for at least a couple of years before you moved…” Jemma mutters to herself. Her eyes focus on his. “How old were you when you got your Ph.D.?”

Fitz winces. He thought he had left these questions behind in America, but apparently not. “Sixteen.”

Jemma’s eyes widen and suddenly her fingers dig into his arm. “So was I!” she whisper-shouts excitedly. “My first one, anyways.”

Fitz raises his eyebrows in surprise. “You first one?” he repeats. “You have more than one?”

Jemma’s smile contains a mixture of embarrassment and pride. “I have two.”

Fitz rolls onto his back and looks up at the ceiling. “Jesus. And I thought I was a prodigy.” He turns his head to look at her. “So how old are you?”

“Twenty.” Jemma suddenly starts giggling and she buries her face in her pillow to muffle the sound.

“What’s so funny?” Fitz asks.

Jemma’s shoulders shake. “Nothing - it’s just…” Jemma turns her head again, pressing her cheek into her pillow. She points between the two of them. “The two of us - turns out we got married _very_ young.”

Fitz laughs as well. “Well, you know how it is with child prodigies - always accomplishing things younger than everyone else.”

Jemma bursts into another fit of giggles, which only makes Fitz laugh harder as well.

Suddenly there’s a pounding on the wall, and the elderly Italian man in the next room shouts, “Quiet!”

Jemma and Fitz pull up the blankets to smother their laughter, looking at each other even though all they can see is the other’s crinkling eyes. They’re both still smiling when they fall asleep.

\---------------------

When Fitz wakes the next morning, he realizes that at some point during the night, he’d curled himself around Jemma, with his arm slung over her waist and his face nestled in her hair. Jemma, on her part, has woven her legs through his and clutched at the hand that was resting on her stomach. Fitz very gently attempts to disentangle himself from Jemma without waking her. He dresses himself as quickly and quietly as he can manage before slipping out of the bedroom.

Jemma pretends that she’s still asleep until she hears Fitz leave the bedroom. She figures it’ll be easier for both of them to avoid any awkward conversation if she feigns ignorance of their unintentional cuddling. She lies in bed a bit longer, enjoying the residual warmth left in the sheets, before getting ready and heading to the kitchen.

As soon as Fitz sees Jemma walk into the kitchen, he returns to the coffee pot to pour her a mug, adding a dash of cream. He holds it out to her. “Coffee?”

Jemma bites her tongue, resisting the urge to ask Fitz how on earth he managed to learn how she takes her coffee. “Thank you.” She accepts the mug from Fitz and brings it to her lips, taking a cautious sip.

“No ‘good morning’ kiss?” Ethel asks, disappointed, from her seat at the table.

Fitz points to his face. “Morning breath,” he explains.

Ethel looks pointedly at Jemma. “I’m sure she doesn’t mind.” She turns her attention back to Fitz. “Trust me - the secret to a marriage that lasts is to kiss every morning.”

Fitz is a bit perturbed at her insistence that they kiss in front of her. He wonders fleetingly if Ethel is secretly a voyeur and makes a mental note to check their bedroom for peepholes. To Fitz’s surprise, he feels Jemma’s hand on his arm. He turns to look at her and her face is getting closer and closer and she’s only a hair's-breadth away when she pauses, uncertain. Unthinkingly, he closes the gap, lightly brushing his lips over hers. It’s more of a whisper than a kiss, really, for how brief and light it is, but still, it gives Fitz a heady rush and he tightens his grip on his mug for fear of dropping it.

Fitz stares at Jemma as she pulls away from him, resisting the urge to lean in again. Jemma looks at him, wide-eyed and startled, as if she weren’t the one who surprised him. She swallows and smiles at him as though they’re sharing a private joke. “Good morning, _Leopold_.”

Fitz rolls his eyes and smiles back at her, relieved that she’s teasing him. He takes it to mean that she didn’t find their kiss unbearably awkward.

“Oh, look,” Frank grins as he walks into the room. “The lovebirds are awake.” He sits next to his wife and leans in give her a kiss. Ethel immediately shoots Fitz a look, as if to say, _I told you so._

“What’s on the agenda for today?” Frank asks.

Jemma leans back against the counter next to Fitz so that they’re standing side by side, their arms pressed together. “We’re planning on catching the first train to Dublin.”

Frank and Ethel exchange concerned glances.

Fitz frowns. “What is it?” he asks.

Frank looks at them apologetically. “I’m afraid that’s not possible. It’s Sunday.”

“So?” Jemma asks.

“The trains don’t run through here on Sundays,” Ethel explains.

Jemma’s face pales.

Fitz glances at her in concern, then quickly turns back to Frank. “What about buses?” Fitz asks.

Frank manages to dig out a transit map from his study that’s only slightly outdated. After twenty minutes of studying the map and thirty minutes bickering over it, Jemma and Fitz decide to walk to the next town over to catch a city bus that, after three transfers, will eventually get them to the bus station in Carlow, where they’ll catch a coach to Dublin.

“Ready to go, Mrs. Fitzsimmons?” Fitz asks cheekily.

Jemma glares at him.

“Sorry,” Fitz grins. “I meant _Dr._ Fitzsimmons.”

Jemma nods approvingly. “That’s more like it.”

\---------------------

“Tellurium.”

“Uranium.”

“Vanadium.” Jemma hits Fitz’s arm with the back of her hand. “It’s here!”

The bus rolls to a stop in front of them and Fitz is grateful for the opportunity to pause their game. They pay their fare and make their way through the narrow aisle, finding two empty seats next to each other.

Jemma turns to look at him. “Well?” she prompts.

Fitz pauses. “Tungsten,” he says finally.

Jemma rolls her eyes. “Just because its symbol is W, doesn’t mean it counts.”

“But there’s nothing else!” Fitz protests. He sincerely hopes that’s true and that he’s not just forgetting it, because that would be embarrassing. He figures he can always claim that he was driven to distraction by how the air in the bus smells like an unholy amalgamation of piss and cheap cologne and cough syrup and sweat.

Jemma raises an eyebrow. “So you forfeit?”

Fitz groans. “That’s not fair, Simmons! There is literally no element that starts with a W!”

Jemma smiles and leans back in her seat, the colors of which seem to have been chosen for its ability to camouflage technicolor puke. “I win.”

Fitz narrows his eyes. “I would have won if you landed on W, you know.”

“But I didn’t, so…” Jemma sticks her tongue out at him.

“You’re a poor winner, Simmons,” Fitz grumps, folding his arms over his chest and slouching in his seat.

Jemma nudges him with her shoulder. “You know what this means?”

Fitz rolls his eyes and holds out his hand. “Fine. Let me see it.”

Jemma hands him his blueprints, which Fitz unrolls onto his lap. After looking at it for a few moments, he grumbles, “Your improvements are problematic, Simmons.” He holds out his hand again and makes a beckoning motion with his fingers. Jemma hands him a pencil. He starts erasing and rewriting. “I mean, your ideas aren’t bad in theory - it’s just you don’t exactly have your doctorate in engineering, you know?”

“I’m well aware of that, thank you.” Jemma leans over his shoulder to watch him work. “Maybe I’ll get my next doctorate in engineering,” she muses.

Fitz turns to glance at her, almost bumping her cheek with his nose. He quickly looks down again. “You do know that doctorates aren’t Pokemon, right? You don’t _actually_ have to collect them all.”

\---------------

“So how come your supervisor and Ward are already in Dublin and you’re not?” Fitz asks, his mouth full of sandwich. “Wouldn’t it have been easier if you caught the same flight as them?”

They’ve stopped to get dinner before catching the last bus that will take them to the terminal where they’ll catch the coach to Dublin. Jemma would’ve much rather taken their sandwiches to go, but Fitz insisted they take a break, needing a bit of fresh air after spending so much time in the stuffy and unventilated buses.

Jemma reaches across the table and steals a chip from Fitz’s plate. Fitz resists the urge to swat her hand away. “I would’ve, but I had to stay behind an extra day. I had a job interview.”

Fitz raises his eyebrows. “Switching companies?”

Jemma shakes her head. “No - the head of the R&D department recently got a promotion, so I thought I’d apply for the opening. I figured I should at least try.” Jemma bites violently into her chip. “I should’ve just left with the others. I’m not going to get it anyways.”

“That is by far the most pessimistic thing I’ve heard you say,” Fitz observes.

“Well, it’s true,” Jemma sighs. “It’s a bit of a boys’ club at Roxxon. It’s always been more about charisma and who the higher ups like more than it does with what anyone’s accomplished.”

“Who’s to say they don’t like you?”

Jemma steals two more chips from Fitz’s plate and shoves them both in her mouth. “I’m insufferable,” she admits glumly.

Fitz narrows his eyes at her. “Who said that?!” he demands, offended on her behalf.

Jemma stares at him, affronted. “You did! Twenty minutes ago!”

Fitz waves her off. “Well, that’s just me. And what do I know, really? I only have one Ph.D., after all.”

\------------------

Fitz and Jemma get into their fifth row of the day when they discover that the terminal where they were supposed to catch the coach to Dublin was actually the station where they catch the commuter bus that will take them to the coach terminal 40 minutes outside the city. (“This seems superfluous,” Fitz had muttered.) The terminal stands alone in the middle of an asphalt lot, the only building they’ve seen since the bus left the city.

They almost get into their sixth row of the day when they attempt to buy their tickets to Dublin and discover that the nightly 11:30 coach departure they planned to take had been discontinued five months ago. “Last one left at 11,” the ticket agent tells them apologetically.

Once they’re standing off to the side, Jemma opens her mouth and Fitz fully expects her to yell at him and tell him it’s all his fault, but instead, she just exhales heavily and shuffles off to a row of seats against the wall. She collapses into a seat, tilts her head back with her eyes closed, and sits eerily still.

Fitz sinks into the seat next to her, reaching out to put his hand on her knee, then quickly withdraws it before making contact. “You okay, Simmons?”

Jemma inhales deeply, then slowly exhales, trying to draw out her breath for as long as possible. “Yup,” she says, her eyes still closed. “It’s fine. It’s completely fine.”

“It is?”

“Yup,” Jemma says breathily, as though she’s trying to convince herself as much as anyone else. “We’ll just stay here tonight, catch the first bus out tomorrow, which will give me an hour to get from the bus station to the hotel to give the presentation. I might even have time to shower. It’ll be fine.”

Someone clears his throat in front of them. Fitz turns to see a security guard standing with his arms crossed over his chest.

“Is something wrong?” Fitz asks.

“We’re about to close for the night,”the guard informs them.

Jemma opens her eyes. “Sir, we missed the last coach out and in case you haven’t noticed, this station is in the middle of nowhere. There are no other buildings around for miles, and public transport stopped running a half hour ago. Could we just stay in here tonight?”

“‘Fraid not,” the security guard told them. “New law - there were too many vagrants loitering. I’m afraid you’re going to wait outside ‘til morning.”

Jemma stands. “It’s freezing out there! Is there anywhere else we can wait?”

The guard shrugs. “There’s a couple of telephone booths outside. That’s usually where all the people who can’t plan correctly stay.”

Jemma springs out of her seat, and for a moment, Fitz is afraid that she’s going to punch the guard. Instead, she stomps outside, leaving Fitz to follow her with all her belongings. As the door clicks shut behind them, Jemma steps off the curb and onto the asphalt. It’s dark outside except for two street lamps on opposite sides of the lot, and Fitz watches Jemma’s silhouette pace back and forth, back and forth, like a caged bear in distress. She stops, suddenly, tilts her head up to the sky, and yells, “WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS?”

“Who are you talking to?” Fitz asks.

Jemma whirls around to face him. “I’m a scientist. I’m a rational human being,” she informs him with a crazed look in her eyes that in no way lines up with her claim that she’s rational. “I used to think I had control over my life. That my choices determined the outcome - cause and effect.” She starts pacing again, her voice rising with every step she takes. “But _apparently_ , at some point, Lemony goddamn Snicket took over because my life has become nothing but a SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS!!!” she shouts, directing her words at the sky.

Fitz stares at Jemma, mouth agape. He scratches behind his ear. “I don’t think Lemony Snicket lives up there.”

Jemma covers her face with her hands. “Ugh, Fitz!”

“And I’m pretty sure Lemony Snicket is a _nom de plume_.”

“That’s beside the point.”

“And not everything has been unfortunate.”

Jemma points at him. “No!” she shouts angrily. “You don’t get to do that!”

Fitz raises his eyebrows. “What?”

Jemma stomps towards him, joining him on the curb. She steps in close to him and pokes him in the chest. Hard. “You don’t get to tell me to look on the bright side. I _always_ look on the bright side. And where has it gotten me?” She takes a step back. “Look around, Fitz! We’re stranded! We’re in the middle of nowhere, with nowhere to sleep, all by ourselves!”

“We’re not all by ourselves,” Fitz points out.

Jemma rolls her eyes. “Yes, I know. We have each other.”

Fitz resists the urge to smile. “Actually, I was referring to that bloke over there.” He nods towards the other end of the terminal, where a middle-aged man dressed in a green tunic and tights dances along the edge of the curb, playing a bamboo pan flute. “Think he’s supposed to be Peter Pan.”

The corners of Jemma’s lips twitch up, but she shakes her head and presses her lips even more tightly together, apparently determined to be miserable.

Fitz smiles at her. “You seriously didn’t see him? He’s pretty hard to miss.”

Jemma’s hand flies up to clap over her mouth, and suddenly laughter is bubbling out of her and her shoulders are shaking and tears are streaming down her face. She sits down on the curb, stretching her legs in front of her.

Fitz sits down next to her, waiting for both her laughter and tears to subside before he speaks again. “Look, if there’s one thing I learned these past couple of years, it’s that the world doesn’t function like a laboratory. We can’t account for every variable.” He nudges her shoulder with his. “Sometimes things happen that are out of anyone’s control, and we can’t change it. We just have to learn to live with it. We just…” Fitz exhales heavily. “Accept it for what it is.”

“And what is this, then?” Jemma asks.

Fitz plants his palms behind him and leans back, putting his weight on them. “I’ll tell you what it isn’t.”

Jemma looks at him expectantly.

Fitz directs his bright blue gaze at her, giving a little half shrug with one shoulder. “The end of the world.”

Peter Pan switches to a new song and starts dancing towards them. Fitz and Jemma look at each other, pressing their lips tightly together to hold in their laughter as he skips past them.

Once Peter Pan is out of hearing distance, Fitz asks Jemma, “So what’s your next project going to be, after this?”

Jemma tilts her head and narrows her eyes at him. “It’s not going to work, you know.”

Fitz frowns. “Well, not if you’re already giving up on it!”

Jemma shakes her head and rolls her eyes. “No - I mean you trying to distracting me. It’s not going to work.”

Fitz shrugs. “And what if I honestly want to know?”

Jemma scoffs. “It doesn’t matter anyways. I’ll just end up working on whatever they tell me to do. I don’t have a lot of freedom to pursue my own projects.”

Fitz looks down at his lap, tangling his fingers together. “That’s too bad.”

Jemma draws her legs to her chest, resting her chin on her knees. “It is what it is.”

“Well, if you get that promotion, maybe you’ll get to pursue your own projects.”

Jemma stares dreamily into the distance. “Yeah,” she sighs.

“What would be first on your agenda?” Fitz asks.

Jemma hesitates. “Well…”

“Go on,” Fitz prods.

“I heard there’s been other teams studying _Orphiocordyceps Unilateralis_. It’s a fungus that emits spores that are able to manipulate the brains of ants.”

“The zombie fungus,” Fitz supplies.

Jemma looks at him in surprise and smiles. “Right. That’s the one.” She looks straight ahead again. “I have to admit that I worry about its potential applications.”

“You think it could be used to manipulate humans?” Fitz asks.

Jemma shrugs. “I don’t know. At any rate, I’d like to see if I could create a potential counteracting agent.”

“Like a vaccine?”

“More like an antiserum.” Jemma pauses. “I’d need a dispersal mechanism though, and I don’t really want to partner with Ward again.”

“Isn’t there another engineer you can partner with?” Fitz suggests.

“None with the background necessary to partner with a biochemist.”

“So create it yourself.”

Jemma snorts. “Right.”

“I’m serious,” Fitz insists. “You’re perfectly capable.”

“I’m sure my ideas would be adequate in theory, but I don’t exactly have my doctorate in engineering,” she quips.

Fitz reaches into Jemma’s messenger bag and pulls out her notebook. “Nonsense.” He opens to a blank page. “What would be your specifications?”

Fitz quickly sketches according to Jemma’s instructions, occasionally handing the pencil to Jemma so she can make some additions herself. And then when that’s done, they turn the page and sketch another of Jemma’s ideas. Which then gives Fitz an idea, so they turn the page and sketch that, too, all the while talking over each other and bickering, though Jemma doesn’t know if the word ‘bickering’ fully describes what they’re doing because she doesn’t know how they can disagree and understand each other so fully at the same time.

Sometime in the middle of their sixth sketch, Fitz feels crackling static travelling up his leg, so he jumps to his feet and sways, shifting his weight from foot to foot. “My leg fell asleep,” he complains. He hobbles to the other end of the lot, where there’s another streetlamp illuminating empty asphalt.

Jemma stands and follows him, shaking out her limbs and rolling her shoulders as she walks.

Once she’s joined him under the streetlamp, Fitz turns to look towards the north end of the bus terminal. “Do you reckon he lives here?” he asks, nodding towards Peter Pan. “Or do you think he’s travelling? Taking his show on the road and what not.”

Jemma only vaguely registers his questions, too focused on her own to pay attention to them. “You should come with me,” she blurts.

Fitz turns to look at her, his features crinkled in confusion. “I am,” he points out slowly. “What else would I be doing here?”

Jemma squeezes her eyes shut and quickly shakes her head, hoping it will knock loose the right words from her brain. She takes a deep breath and opens her eyes. “I mean to America. I’m sure there’s a position for you at Roxxon.”

Fitz doesn’t say a word.

“We work so well together,” Jemma pleads desperately.

Fitz gives her _that_ look, the look that’s already become as familiar to her as breathing, the one with wide and intent eyes and slightly parted lips and eyebrows that look like they want to draw together but don’t. It’s the look that says he wants to but can’t.

“Why not?” Jemma asks softly. She wants to cry, which is ridiculous because he’s technically a stranger, so she doesn’t know why she feels like she’s about to say goodbye to her best friend.

“The inn,” he says simply, as though that explains everything.

Jemma shakes her head slightly, not following his logic. “But why? You can’t possibly tell me that running that inn comes even close to being as fulfilling as your career in science.”

Fitz turns away, squeezing his eyes shut and pinching the bridge of his nose. “You don’t understand. That inn…” he drops his hand and looks at her pleadingly. “That was her _life_. That’s all I have left of her.”

Once Jemma feels the tension flow out of her body, she understands that the discomfort she was feeling came from being out of sync with Fitz. Now that she understands him again, her mind takes on a greater sense of clarity. “Fitz - letting go of the inn doesn’t mean you’re letting go of your mum.” Jemma takes a step closer to him, feeling brave enough to get as close to him as she was in their shared bed the night before. “Your mum will always be with you.” Jemma lays her palm flat over Fitz’s heart and looks up at him. “In here.”

She can feel his heart thumping under his skin and as she stares up at his face, she thinks that it really is quite a beautiful face. His eyes are wide and intent, and she senses that their faces are getting closer, but she’s not sure whether he’s moving forward or she’s moving forward or both.

Their lips hover a millimeter away from each other, their breaths mingling in the small space between. Jemma closes her eyes.

When Fitz moves forward, his lips don’t meet hers as Jemma expects, but instead brush softly against her forehead. Jemma’s eyes flutter open. Fitz looks almost as disappointed as she feels. “We should get some sleep,” he mutters.

Jemma does _not_ stomp back to the terminal (though it certainly seems that way to Fitz). She flops onto the ground, stretching her legs in front of her and leaning back against the wall. After a moment of indecisiveness, Fitz follows her and sits down next to her. He pats his lap in a silent invitation. Jemma hesitates before lying down and resting her head in his lap. If he’s going to send her mixed signals, the least he could do is be her pillow.

\-----------------------

They board the coach just as the sun tentatively peeks over the horizon. Jemma's head drops onto Fitz's shoulder five minutes into the trip, and though Fitz would love nothing more than to nod off as well, he finds himself hypersensitive to her nearness, on edge, as though every atom of his body has a heightened awareness of her presence. He recognizes his uneasiness as his fight or flight response, though he has no idea what he might need to fight for or flee from.

He tilts his head, resting it on hers, and closes his eyes.

\------------------------

It's odd to finally be in Dublin after spending so long getting derailed, thinking she'd never get here. It feels anticlimactic, somehow.

Jemma turns to face Fitz once they reach the center of the hotel lobby. "Wait here - I need to find an ATM so I can pay you," As she turns to walk away, she feels Fitz's fingers wrap around her wrist. She turns to look at him.

"It's okay," he tells her. "Don't worry about it."

Jemma furrows her brow. "Don't be ridiculous. You brought me all the way here -"

"I was supposed to drive you here," Fitz reminds her. "Didn't really carry out my part of the deal now, did I?"

Jemma shakes her head. "But-"

"I mean, you had to walk for hours and catch four buses and a coach and sleep outside..."

"And you were beside me the whole damn time!" Fitz and Jemma stare at each other silently for a few moments. Jemma bites her lip. "Just...please. Let me-"

"Dr. Simmons!"

Jemma whirls around at the sound of her name. "Sit - Mr. Sitwell," she stammers, watching as her supervisor swiftly approaches her, a slim blonde woman trailing behind him. "I'm so sorry I'm late - I -"

"Dr. Simmons," he interrupts, once they're face to face. "I want you to meet Pepper Potts."

Jemma's eyes widen. Fitz nudges her, and only then does she notice that Pepper Potts is holding out her hand. "Oh!" Jemma reaches forward and shakes Pepper's hand. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Potts."

Pepper smiles kindly at her. "Call me Pepper."

"I wanted to introduce Ms. Potts to the other new co-head of our Research and Development department," Sitwell explains.

Jemma drops her hand. "Oh? Who is it?"

Sitwell gives her a pointed look. "It's you."

Jemma gapes at him. "Me?" she asks, needing him to say it again in order to believe that it's true.

Sitwell turns to Pepper. "Dr. Simmons and Dr. Ward do such wonderful work together, it made sense to make them co-heads of the department."

"Me and Ward?" Jemma repeats.

Sitwell glances at his watch. He looks at Pepper. "We have to get going." He turns to Jemma. "And you need to get ready for your presentation. We'll see you in an hour."

Jemma watches in shock as Sitwell and Pepper walk away. She blindly reaches behind her to grab Fitz's arm. "Fitz!" Her fingers grasp at air. She turns around. "Fitz?" There's no one there.

Jemma scans the room, hoping to catch a glimpse of his familiar curls and blue eyes. Nothing.

He's gone.

\----------------------------

_4 months later…_

Fitz leans against the wall, trying to stay out of the way as his realtor shows off the inn to a potential buyer. Selling turns out not to be a choice, but an inevitability. He doesn't have the warmth or charm or business acumen his mom had. There was no way to keep it afloat.

He looks out the window and sees a woman walking towards the inn. She stops and turns to stare at the “For Sale” sign and when Fitz sees her face, his breath catches. He’s almost certain she’s a hallucination but his feet carry him outside anyways. He wants to call out her name, to sweep her into a hug, but he’s afraid that the woman will look up and he’ll realize that it’s not her - that it’s someone else because it could never be her.

But then she looks up as she hears his shoes crunching through the grass and she straightens and holds her head high. “Dr. Fitz,” she greets him, and it’s far from the warm greeting he’s been daydreaming of these past four months. She sounds formal and professional and _distant_ , as though the Atlantic is still between them.

“Simmons,” he breathes, almost unable to believe it. He stops in front of her, resisting the urge to reach out and touch her to see if she’s real or just a hologram or hallucination. “What are you doing here?”

“Your phone wasn’t working,” Jemma blurts. She looks down at the ground. “They tried to call, but…” She clears her throat and looks back up at him. “Anyways, they sent me here to talk to you in person.”

“They?” Fitz repeats. “Who’s they?”

Jemma shakes her head a little, remembering the script she had prepared during the plane ride. “I’m here on behalf of Stark Industries. They’d like to offer you a job.”

“A job?” Fitz furrows his brow. “Why?”

Jemma shrugs. “They saw our designs. They want us to develop prototypes.”

“Us?” Fitz is vaguely cognizant of the fact that he is echoing everything she says, but everything Jemma is saying is very confusing and he just needs to be sure that he’s hearing her correctly. “Me and you?”

Jemma rolls her eyes. “Yes, Fitz. Me and you.”

“What about Roxxon?”

Jemma looks down and tucks her hair behind her ear. “It didn’t work out.”

“How could it not work out?” Fitz demands. “You got that promotion and everything!”

Jemma looks back towards the road. “Well, it became clear pretty quickly that they just needed me as the token female in a leadership position to impress Pepper - they wanted to make sure the deal with Stark went through.”

“Did it?” Fitz asks.

Jemma snorts. “No. I mean, Pepper may be blonde, but she’s not an idiot. She liked our designs - the ones that Roxxon didn’t even bother to look at - and offered me the opportunity to work at Stark.”

“Sounds like you’re better off now. I’m glad everything worked out for you.” Fitz smiles kindly at her and Jemma swallows when she sees that look on his face, the one that somehow manages to convey admiration and respect and wonder just through his eyes. It’s nice to be looked at in that way, and it makes it hard for Jemma to remember that she doesn't care about him at all. Even when he first approached her, the shock and excitement on his face mirroring the expression she was sure was on hers, she felt her heart leap, though whether it was because of joy or nerves was still a mystery to her. Either way, it was unacceptable - there was no reason for his presence to make her happy or nervous or excited or affect her at all, really.

Jemma gestures towards the “For Sale” sign. “I’m sorry things didn’t work out for you here. I know how much the inn means to you.”

Fitz shrugs in resignation. “I tell myself that maybe the inn can be someone else’s fresh start. I think my mum would’ve liked that.”

“I think your mum would’ve liked for you to have a fresh start too,” Jemma tells him softly.

Fitz’s lips twitch. “You didn’t know her,” he reminds her gently.

Jemma bites her bottom lip and resists the urge to look away. “I know she loved you. And when you love someone, you want them to have the things in their life that make them happy.”

“You make me happy,” Fitz offers, feeling brave.

Jemma stiffens and frowns. “I’m here strictly on business,” she informs him, and like that, her walls are up again.

Fitz kicks himself, reminding himself that of course she doesn’t feel the same way. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything. I didn’t mean to-”

“You _shouldn’t_ have said anything?” Jemma repeats incredulously. “You think the problem is that you said _too much_?”

Fitz raises his eyebrows, taken aback. “I don’t know what the problem is,” he admits.

Jemma groans and spins on her heels, clutching at her hair as she walks away, and while Fitz can’t make out every word she mutters under her breath, he’s pretty sure that he hears the words _absolute numpty_. Jemma whirls back around to face him. “You didn’t say goodbye!”

Fitz’s face falls. "No. I didn't," he agrees sadly.

"It was awfully rude of you." It was also heartbreaking, though Jemma decides not to add that part.

Fitz takes a tentative step towards her. "I know. I really am sorry. I can’t tell you how much I regret it."

Jemma shakes her head. "Why didn't you?"

Fitz holds out his hands, palms up. "I couldn't." He takes another step closer.

"Why not?" Jemma swipes at the hair that the wind is blowing in her face. She keeps her hand on top of her head, trying to keep her hair from flying everywhere.

"You would have tried to convince me to come back with you.”

"So?"

"You would have succeeded," Fitz admits.

Jemma's face crumples. "And what's wrong with that?"

Fitz shakes his head. "Simmons. I had responsibilities. Things I needed to take care of. I couldn't just leave it all behind on a whim like that. It wasn't rational.”

“It’s perfectly rational to move for a job opportunity,” Jemma argues.

“It wouldn’t have been for the job - it would’ve been for you!” Fitz confesses, and Jemma feels something akin to hope blooming in her chest. “And it wasn’t logical for me to want to leave everything behind for someone I'd just met. It doesn't make sense."

Jemma shrugs and tries to keep her voice steady as she reminds him, "Sometimes things don't make sense. Sometimes things happen that are out of anyone’s control, and we can’t change it. We just accept it for what it is." She pauses. "Sound familiar?"

Fitz chances a half smile. "Vaguely. I think I remember someone fairly brilliant saying that, once upon a time."

Jemma snorts. "He's clever, sure, but brilliant? That's taking it a bit too far. He only has one Ph.D., after all."

“Yeah,” Fitz agrees. “Maybe if he had another one, he would know better than to fall in love after only three days.”

Jemma’s eyes widen and Fitz realizes too late what he had just admitted to, but before he can take it back, Jemma recovers and says, “Actually, I don’t think an additional doctorate would’ve helped.” She smiles shyly at him. “Didn’t help me, at any rate.”

“Oh,” Fitz breathes.

“What do you think we should do about it?” Jemma asks.

Fitz scratches the back of his head. “I guess I should book my ticket to America, yeah?”

Jemma nods. “That’s good. That’s very good.” She pauses. “Anything else?”

Fitz presses a finger to his lips, looking askance. “I don’t know,” he muses. “I think that’s it.”

Jemma laughs and reaches forward, gently shoving his shoulder. Fitz wraps his arm around her waist, pulling her tightly to him, and leans down to press his lips to hers. Jemma molds herself against him, clutching at his jumper with the hand that was already at his shoulder and bringing the other one up cup his face, her fingers trailing softly along his jawline. They part their lips at the same time, in sync as always, deepening the kiss.

Fitz pulls away and rests his forehead on hers. “Ready for our next adventure?”

“Not quite.”

Fitz pulls away from her, frowning. “No?”

“Well, first we have to book your flight,” Jemma reminds him, ticking off her fingers. “And then we have to find a way to the airport - and don’t even mention your car, it’s the furthest thing from reliable, no matter what you say.” She grabs his hand and starts pulling him towards the inn. “Then we need to get transportation from the airport once we reach L.A. - I’m sure we could get a taxi, but I think Pepper would be willing to pick us up. And we have to find you a flat! Though I suppose you could stay with me for a bit until we get you situated.”

“Yeah?” Fitz asks hopefully, liking the sound of that last part.

Jemma smiles at him. “Oh, absolutely. As long as you don’t mind sharing a bed again.”

“I think I could live with that.”

Fitz finds that their second trip together goes a lot more smoothly than their first. In fact, Jemma’s itinerary goes exactly as planned - that is, until they get to the part where Fitz finds his own flat. He finds sharing a bed with Jemma so amenable that he doesn’t bother leaving. It wasn’t necessarily part of their plan, but they learn to live with it.

After all, plans are vastly overrated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know some readers probably wanted to see Ward get his comeuppance, but I figured Ward's comeuppance could come when he doesn't have anyone smarter to do all the work for him and ends up being incompetent at his job. And that can be Roxxon's comeuppance as well. I mean, that's the most true to life?


End file.
